


oft in dreams i wander

by apolliades



Category: The Martian (2015)
Genre: Affection, Dreams and Nightmares, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Guilt, Literal Sleeping Together, M/M, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Recovery, beck can't sleep, i'm glad that's a tag, that's it that's all it is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-22
Updated: 2018-05-22
Packaged: 2019-05-10 00:05:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14726171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apolliades/pseuds/apolliades
Summary: "I have them sometimes. Dreams."





	oft in dreams i wander

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lapoesieestdanslarue](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lapoesieestdanslarue/gifts).



> _We must get home: All is so quiet there: The touch of loving hands on brow and hair--_  
>  \- James Whitcomb Riley, We Must Get Home

The sounds of his distress are soft, but Chris sleeps so lightly now - if it really counts as sleeping - he hears them, still.

“Mark.”

Mark sleeps lightly, too, must do because Chris barely has to raise his voice and he stirs, grumbles softly and rolls over, squashes his face into Chris’ shoulder. He drapes an arm across Chris’ chest and he can’t help but notice how much lighter the weight of it is, how Mark’s elbow digs in sharp to his sternum like it never used to. So thin he is now. Getting better, but still. Hard to face. Chris faces it anyway. He lays the flat of his hand on Mark’s middle, walks his fingers slowly up the xylophone swell of his ribs.

“Were you dreaming?”

Mark grunts. His voice is sleep-slurred and annoyed. “That fuckin’ tickles.”

Chris moves on to tracing the bumps of his spine instead, lightly though, because he knows the bruises there are still healing, even if he can’t see them here in the dark. After a minute or two Mark grunts a little more forcefully.

“Quit fuckin’ tickling me, Beck.”

So Chris relents, leaves his hand flat on the back of Mark’s neck. If he tucks two fingers in just so, he can feel his pulse, and it’s comforting.

“I have them, sometimes,” he murmurs, after a while. “Dreams.”

Mark snores at him pointedly — he is so weary now, sleeps as often as he can— but Chris carries on.

“About you, mostly. About me, sometimes, and sometimes about us, but mostly about you. You and Mars.”

He speaks softly, in between the beats of Mark’s heart under his fingertips, blending with the throb of his own. It’s harder than it used to be to tell when Mark’s asleep. It used to be unmistakable: when he was awake he was always _so_ awake. Now he spends whole days dozing, drifting, while his body heals. Chris will pad softly around for hours, being careful not to wake him, only to find out he’s been conscious the entire time, just still.

“On your own, up there.” Chris brushes his thumb through the soft hair at Mark’s nape. “That whole planet empty, except for you. I have a lot, like that. Dreams of just space, lightyears on lightyears of space, stretching out between me and you. Memories, too, sometimes, or — they start as memories. And then… diverge. I dream of everything I could have done differently. Everything I could have done, to…”

He feels Mark sigh heavily against him. It feels exasperated. Chris turns his head, puts his nose into Mark’s hair.

“Sometimes I’m in your place, in the dreams — sometimes it’s you who’s left me behind. And sometimes I can’t forgive you for it. Sometimes, sometimes I hate you for it so much, I—” His breath stutters; he closes his eyes, presses his mouth as close to Mark’s brow as he can reach, fingers curling at the back of his neck. His voice, already a whisper, becomes small, strained, anxious. “—I can’t understand why you don’t hate me. I can’t understand how you forgave me.”

Under his hands and his distress, Mark stirs. He groans softly, tilts his head to kiss Chris’ shoulder, then shifts his weight and burrows closer in against his side. “Don’t do this, baby,” he mumbles, hand wandering sleepily, blindly to pet Chris’ shoulder, collarbone, tuck against the curve of his neck, soothing. “Not again, please. I’m tired.”

“I’m sorry,” Chris exhales, reedy and guilty. It shouldn’t be this way round, he knows. After everything, it shouldn’t be Mark consoling him. Not ever again.

“I know. It’s alright. It’s over. I’m here, now. I’m safe.”

“Yeah,” he manages, sounding steadier with a little effort. It’s still hard to believe, sometimes, especially when they’re a room apart; just like it was hard to believe, sometimes, on  _Hermes_  after they lost him, that Mark wasn’t with them anymore. “I know.”

“Are you sure?”

“No.” Chris laughs, lets it ruffle Mark’s hair. “Not always. Are you?”

“Not always,” Mark says, gently. “Not yet. All those hours up there, though, I learned how to be patient.”

“I can’t imagine you being _patient_.” Chris pushes. Knows he won’t be able to fall asleep again just yet, and it isn’t fair to keep Mark awake just for that, but he can’t help it sometimes, on nights like this.

“‘course I am. I’m a botanist. Plants are slow.”

“Hmm.”

“And,” Mark makes a fist, thumps Chris on the shoulder so lightly he barely feels it. “I’ve been patient enough not to kick you out of bed yet, haven’t I?”

“Yeah.” Chris laughs again, soft, lets it dissolve into a sigh. “Yeah. Sorry.”

“It’s okay.”

“Thank you.”

“Shhh.” Mark thumbs over the same spot on Chris’ shoulder. “Shush, baby. Go back to sleep.”

He’s almost asleep again himself, Chris can tell. He wriggles down and burrows in to plant a kiss on his mouth, and gets a gentle hum in return as Mark drifts away.

-

Next time Mark has a bad dream, he does better. Keeps his mouth shut, just takes his hand when Mark reaches for him, holds it tight between his own, looks him in the eye and breathes with him till he remembers where he is. That he’s here now. That he’s safe.

He’s reminding himself, too. They’re reminding each other.

“I’m here,” Mark says, half-conscious but fierce, like a revelation.

“You’re here,” Chris says, forehead to forehead, nose to nose.

Mark’s thin fingers grip his so tight it almost hurts, bones and knuckles digging in.

“Are you sure?”

Chris kisses him, firm on the mouth, and tells him, “Yes.”


End file.
